Risk
by Axcent
Summary: Mello drags Matt to Spain against his will to pull off a heist. Expecting to be holding fort in a tech van somewhere safe, Matt is disappointed when he ends up mascaraing as a wealthy tourist, forced to enjoy good food, beautiful views, and all that stuff he doesn't really like.


"Matt" was what he was calling himself, because he had this niggling feeling that strangers were laughing at Mail. _Mail like the box?_ he sometimes mocked himself, to get his own hackles up, _Mail like the gender?_ Matt came by subjugation easily and his imagination for potential bad social interactions was high definition. He had to take steps against these embarrassing potentialities. He had to adopt an alias the way he'd adopted an English accent and swapped out knee-jerk _blyat!_ s for deliberate _cunt_ s and _motherfucker_ s. He'd been calling himself Matt even when he wasn't introducing himself to anyone, so that was how he introduced himself to the prick who abducted him.

'Alright, Matt,' his captor said, 'for the next 72 hours, I'm your best friend.'

'Not a lot of competition.' Matt mumbled. He was in the backseat, which was better than a trunk or something. 'Why?'

'Because my associate's got you tied up in his car; I'm all you have.'

'Good cop bad cop.' Glossing over the fact that it was this guy – not the guy driving the Range Rover – who had approached Matt and demonstrated in loving detail how truly wretched meeting new people could be by pistol whipping him on the cheekbone. 'Usually introductions are two-sided.'

'I'm Mello.' Said the prick who'd smacked him with a glock.

'Really shitty to meet you.'

'You have an excellent resume.'

'I don't have a resume.'

Mello rolled his eyes. 'Fine. You have an excellent reputation.'

'For what?'

The car rolled on through green lights into dropping darkness. Mello stared at him with furious incredulity.

'I just mean,' Matt continued, prompted by the heavy silence, 'I do a lot of different stuff. What are you... trying to exploit? Exactly?'

Mello almost smiled. 'A lotta stuff, hm? We needed a hacker, but go on. What else can ya do for me?'

'I used to make bombs.'

'No shit!'

'Mostly hacking.' Matt shrugged one shoulder. His heart was starting to slow back down. He'd always known being restrained in the back of a car was a possibility, considering his line of work, he'd just assumed it'd be because he'd been arrested. 'Ok if I smoke?'

'Does this car smell like it's ok?' Mello asked.

'No, but... doesn't hurt to ask.'

'Does this guy have balls or what?' Mello asked the driver, turning his sharp eyes away from Matt. 'Fuck. Alright, here. You got your own smokes, right, Matt?' He shuffled in the glove box and turned back to Matt with a barbecue lighter in his hand.

'In my back pocket.'

'Roll down the window back there, Mason.' Mello barked at the driver.

Then he reached behind Matt, put his entire hand on his ass, and pulled out his Marlboros. 'Open.' He ordered, starting the cigarette himself and then jabbing the filter towards Matt's mouth. 'Good. Be quick about it, and blow the smoke out the window. It's colder than Serbia.'

'Not nearly.' Matt said. 'You're dressed like a Hollywood whore. Can't help.'

Mello snatched the cigarette and put it out on Matt's forearm, too quick to predict, like a reflex. Matt had done that to himself a few times as a kid to make a smiley face, and it was easier to burn because of someone else even though it hurt the same. 'You're my hostage.' Mello said.

'I thought I was your best friend.'

Looking stunned, aggravated, and amused, Mello conceded, saying ' _I_ 'm _your_ best friend' in a roughly apologetic tone, and lit Matt another cigarette and helped him smoke it, flicking the ashes into a coffee cup when he took it out from between his lips while Matt breathed out into the night. 'We're doin' a job.'

'And you need a guy in a van. Yeah, I figured.'

'Smart ass. But yes, for the most part. We need a nerd in a boat.'

'You could have asked me, though. I don't need handcuffs to motivate me.'

Mello smirked. 'I'll remember that for next time.'

'Or this time. I can smoke my own cigarettes.'

'I'm sure you can.' The butt had already been dropped in the last dregs of dark coffee at the bottom of the cup, and Mello flicked his hand at the driver to indicate that he should roll up the window again. 'I'm not interested in gambling on the compliance of the people in my employ.'

'I guess that's fair.'

'Boss,' The driver said, 'roadblock.'

Mello straightened in his seat. 'Matt -'

'I don't fuck with cops, come on.' Matt interrupted him.

They slowed to a tense stop in front of an officer with a flashlight who asked if they'd had anything to drink.

'No sir.' The driver said.

Matt tried to look casual, like he just loved to sit with his hands behind his back. He must have succeeded, because they were waved on.

'Was that a good enough proof of loyalty to get these ties off?' Matt asked, when they'd reached highway speeds and Mello was staring at him again.

'No. But you did good. Is that what you want to hear?'

Matt scoffed, mortified because it kinda was.

'So,' Mello started conversationally, 'Grand Theft Auto.'

'Yup. Just the once, as far as my criminal record knows.'

'We know about three.'

Matt said 'huh... wow' under his breath. 'What else do you know about me?'

'That's it. Cars, hacking. And bombs, apparently. Can you drive?'

'Within the speed limit and with my seat belt on? Barely.'

Mello's face was expressive, gleeful insanity. 'I knew I'd picked the right guy for this job.'

'Thanks. Job implies I'm getting a salary?'

'A cut.'

'Fantastic. Smoking is a 10% minimum cut habit to support.'

Mello looked delighted. 'Is it? That's cheap. Deal.'

'I meant to say 40.'

'You do it with a gun on your temple and my hand around your neck, for free.'

'Damn. 20 is fine.'

'Someone more grateful would say 10 was generous, considering.'

'Thank you, kind sir, for burning the shit out of my arm and pulling this zip tie so tight I can't move my hands and breaking my face with your fucking gun. Can I please have a 10 percent cut of the mystery profit from the unknown crimes you're forcing me to commit? Does that do it for you?'

'Yes.'

'Can I have another smoke?'

'It's been all of five minutes.'

'I'm under stress.' Matt looked hard at the back of the seat in front of him while Mello's fingers scraped at the back of his jeans again. There was a metallic glint in the corner of his eye: a rosary swinging from Mello's neck, bumping into his chest while Mello leant over. 'Does God approve of this?' Matt asked.

Mello's voice hit his bruised cheek, warm. 'He's not stopping me.'

'No.'

He opened his mouth like he might say something else. Matt heard his tongue click off the roof of his mouth, but he just sat back down and they went through the process of smoking a cigarette again. Matt was self conscious this second time because he'd asked for it knowing what it would feel like, knowing it would be intimate like that. Mello never took his eyes of his face.

They pulled up in front of a black door in an alley. Mello's driver – Matt had forgotten his name – opened the door for them both. Mello led Matt by one of his belt loops, which was odd, but at least he wasn't pushing him around like a cop would have. The door led to some confusing concrete stairs with iron railings going down and up in twists. There was a lot of space, a lot of shadows swinging under the hanging lights. Matt thought if he yelled there might be an echo. 'Bleak.' He commented, while Mello yanked him down into the pit. 'Where are we?'

'A checkpoint.' Mello reached into the pocket of the heavy leather jacket he'd swung over his shoulders like a catalogue model and pulled out a chocolate bar in silver foil, bit into it with a crack, and then pulled off a piece to push at Matt.

'Mm – I don't know if I like chocolate enough to eat it if there's nothing extra in there.'

'Suit yourself.' Mello popped it in his own mouth and they kept going down. One of the landings they passed had people on it, smoking in a circle and laughing. The next landing had a door with a red exit sign. Mello's driver pushed it open.

It was a bar. Dark, completely packed, and decorated like an old fashioned smoking room. Mello shifted so his arm was around Matt's waist and his jacket hid the white ties around his wrists, and they pushed through the crowd into another room beyond – a checkered dance floor blinking red under projector screens showing some sort of old film footage. A band was hammering away on stage.

Mello marched directly to yet another black door, skirting an aggressive looking mosh pit, punched at it like he wanted its lunch money, and then shoved Matt inside, leaving his driver on the dance floor.

'A library?' Matt asked, eyes adjusting poorly to the well lit, poshly decorated space after the chaotic atmosphere of the bar.

'Hardly.' Mello said. 'My office.'

'Couldn't find something in a good area downtown, or...' There were maps on the walls, a massive cross, plush armchairs, two men hovering near the door. The faint pound of punk music leaked through the walls, just enough to be tolerable white noise.

Mello pushed Matt into a chair and sat on the arm. 'You'll be running surveillance with me on Bella Vida.' Mello snapped his fingers in a quick, bitchy circle, and one of the men stepped up to the coffee table in front of their armchair to open the binders spread across its surface.

When the pages settled, Matt was looking at a 12m motor yacht and the turquoise coast of Mediterranean Spain. 'What am I surveying? The local fauna?'

The hen-picked henchman flipped the page in answer to Matt's question so they were looking at a palatial white mansion crouching on the sea.

'Why have a pool when you're on the ocean?' Matt wondered aloud, looking from the photos to the floor plan.

'Currents.' Mello said. 'Flagrant wealth. It's irrelevant; you won't be swimming.'

'I hope not. I can't.'

'We'll get you some water wings.' He waved the man away again, and he went to stand by the door. 'I need to know when the house is empty. You're a tourist. Where are you from?'

'Russia.'

'Really? Ok, you're a Russian tourist. The truth is the best disguise.'

'Why not use one of your own guys for this? It seems a little mundane.'

'This is phase one. You don't need to know anything else until it's done, and it won't take long. In the meantime, you'll be staying here with me. There's a pullout.'

'It's loud.'

'I'm sure you'll get over it.' Mello sucked in a deep breath. 'I chose you for this, Matt. Don't disappoint me, and don't irritate me, if you can help it.'

'I probably can't, but...' Matt leant forward so Mello had to look at his wrists. 'I would literally do anything to torch a cig with my own two hands.'

'Smiths. Ern. Get out.'

The men disappeared out the heavy door like shadows dissipating, making the room boom with noise from outside and then snuffing it again so the comparative silence smashed over the room.

'I thought you might like to do anything in privacy.' Mello said. He was smiling with his teeth out, rolling off the armrest in a movement reminiscent of martial arts or years of dance training to dig in a drawer and return with a carved pocket knife.

'How thoughtful.' Matt's shoulders were sore; having his hands behind his back made him sit up straight, which he wasn't used to. 'A drink would be nice, too.'

'You're so fucking demanding. What do you want?'

'Like a rum and coke or something. A beer but put like... vodka in it.'

'Disgusting.' Mello hammered on the door and shouted Matt's order at the guy who answered. 'Rum and coke. And a mineral water.' He stalked back over and sat on the armrest again, even though there were other chairs. 'No way in fuck are you drinking a _beer with vodka in it_ right here in front of me. I don't want to witness that sort of shit.'

'Fair enough.' Matt felt ok. He didn't mind a change of pace, and while he'd never wanted to go to Spain (he hated sun), it wasn't the end of the world. 'What now?'

'Do what you want.' Mello said. He indicated the room in general, 'I have Kafka, Solzhenitsyn, Hemingway, Ondaatje, Tolstoy, Joyce...'

'Yeah... lots of words on paper.' Matt nodded. 'I don't think I've read a book since Tony Blair was Prime Minister.'

Mello looked faintly disgusted. 'What do you do for fun, then?'

'Tetris and minesweeper, almost exclusively and almost constantly.'

'The two most repetitive computer games ever made.' Mello snorted. 'I hope you're joking.'

Matt shrugged. He didn't need to defend his interests; minesweeper was popular for a good reason whether Mello liked it or not. 'I'm ranked pretty high on .'

'Better. I have a chessboard. Let's play.'

Mello had an expensive looking, hand carved chessboard, and he played like he thought it might be a matter of life or death. After winning the first game, Matt decided it was safer to barely lose out of fear that Mello might crack the board over his head in competitive fury.

'Check.' Mello said for the 2nd time, almost calm. 'Best two of three satisfy you?'

'Yeah, totally.' Matt said, even though he didn't care. 'Doesn't your gang already have a hacker? Or is it just you and like... a handful of bodyguards having book club in here? Why bring me onboard?'

'Because I want you.'

'Oh, right on.' Matt said under his breath, with the uncomfortable feeling that there was a bigger picture behind Mello's veiled words.

'Time for bed. We have an early flight.'

It was somewhere after midnight; still early for Matt. 'When?' he asked.

'6.15 for Barcelona.'

If Matt had been running the show, he'd have stayed up and then slept on the plane, but Mello was busily throwing couch cushions into one corner of the office. Doubtful that he was open to suggestions. Matt swung his legs over the armrest of the chair he was sitting in, tucked his head into the well-stuffed backing, and prepared to doze for the next handful of hours with his arms crossed and the club bass in his sternum.

Something hit him in the face, and he looked up. It was a knit throw. 'Thanks.' He muttered.

Mello was naked. ' _What_?' he barked when Matt started and squeezed his eyes shut. 'It's my fucking office.'

'Yeah, no kidding.'

The light clicked off. Matt could still see some shapes behind his eyelids. 'Isn't it conspicuous to have dudes flanking your secret door?' he asked after a solid 10 minutes of darkness and creeping boredom.

'Yes.' Mello growled.

'Everyone calls you boss. Big man, huh?'

' _Yes_.'

'And humble?'

'Sleeping.'

'Does your gang have a personal code? Loyalty to family, don't shoot bystanders, never hit a kid with an ice cream cone in his hand, don't steal from people with last names starting with -'

'We have a code that says "if you don't shut the fuck up right now, I will shut you up" which I follow religiously.'

'Cool.'

Matt didn't sleep. He'd never been good at it. He was picking pilling off the throw, squinting to make out the lighter shadows from the darker, bored out of his skull, when Mello's alarm went off.

'You'll be wearing these clothes.' Mello said, immediately after swinging off the futon, flicking a gaudy light on, and stomping towards a massive wooden dresser, demonstrating a startlingly abrupt ability to transition from sleep to wakefulness. 'We're involved, so hold my hand in the airport.' He threw a passport at Matt's chest which called him Матвей Александров.

'We are?'

'Yes.' Next he tossed him a button up shirt and dark maroon corduroys. 'Can you have an accent?'

'Is your target going to hear me talk?'

'Have an accent, if you can.'

Matt wanted to change in a bathroom, but he couldn't see a door anywhere. He'd tried to piss in the middle of the night and gotten no response from the bodyguards who he'd assumed were posted outside, and he was too shy to try it again. He suspected Mello was babysitting him and wouldn't let him out of his sight, anyway, so he shuffled behind the chair where he'd slept and shucked his jeans.

Mello's disguise consisted of a pair of obnoxious sunglasses, a white shirt that probably billowed in strong winds, and a gold chain. 'Let's move.' He said, as soon as his cuffs were buttoned.

Matt followed him back through the clubbing masses, was nearly jostled into the still thriving mosh pit, and was yanked by his shirtsleeve up the ominous concrete stairs back into the real world. They took two suitcases – one battered, one black and new – out of the back of an SUV and then hailed a cab. Mello sat in the back seat in complete silence while they drove to Heathrow.

Holding hands in the airport was cuff-less restraint as much as it was an excuse for them to be travelling together, and Mello dragged him around like a Pomeranian on a short leash until they were belted in the plane and speeding down the tarmac.

Matt slept on the short flight and woke bleary eyed to an industrial beige view out of the window where he'd glued his cheek. Maybe Barcelona would be beautiful once they'd left the airport, but he thought cities were all the same, really, and so far his mind hadn't changed.

They exchanged their money, picked up guidebooks, and Mello did what was obviously an _impression_ of a person who only spoke phrasebook Spanish. Either he thought they were being watched, or he was extremely paranoid and dedicated to the performance artistry of undercover work. Matt thought the latter was more likely: Mello struck him as the type who'd go in for a little method acting. He was just hoping to go along with it and come out the other side with 10% of something... but he tried out having an accent, to make Mello happy.

'I want to be on the water for lunch.' Mello told him in the back of the cab. 'Tienda de... abarrote.' he said to the driver, 'Necessito la comida. Por favor.'

Mello shopped for their lunch with no consideration for Matt's input, and they left the grocery with capers, sharp cheese, bread in a bag, dried things and pickled things, and all that sort of stuff that Matt didn't like.

The yacht club was busy and flat, a mass of sails bobbing at the end of a palm lined boulevard. Matt counted three casinos within view while Mello sorted out the boat business at the Club.

'Why don't you put the perishables in the fridge inside while I spring off?' Mello suggested when they were through the gate and on the floating docks.

Matt agreed, and heaved himself onto the yacht with the aid of a firm grip on Mello's shoulder. He hadn't expected the deck to feel so unsettlingly unsteady. 'Uh... I don't know about this.' he called to Mello, who was bent over doing something with some rope. 'What if I'm one of those people who is currently seasick?'

'You can't be serious.'

'There's a bathroom on this thing, right?'

'Which is clean and will remain clean. Puke over the side. All our waste ends up in the ocean anyway.'

'Uhuh. I guess I'll just whip my dick out and piss into your ocean, too?'

'Try not to fall in.'

'Uhuh.' Matt shielded his eyes and looked out across the water. It was picturesque, for sure. Not really his style, but nice.

Matt spent most of the short voyage from the docks to the target's house sitting on a long beige couch near Mello and chewing on Fisherman's Friends, which he found offensively strong. 'Are we just going to peep through the back door?' he asked after the anchor was dropped.

'Exactly. I have binoculars. Go out to smoke in a few minutes and look into his kitchen.'

'Aye aye captain.'

Mello squinted at him for a moment and went back to pouring wine and setting out the antipasto. 'Fábregas is a very careful, very suspicious man.'

'He's right to be; you kidnapped a guy to have lunch with you on a fancy boat just so you could spy on him.' After a few minutes during which Matt picked at the meat and bread, he stood up. 'I'll have that smoke, then.'

Mello nodded and tossed him the binoculars. 'Pretend you're interested in the landscape.'

'Yeah, yeah, I love nature.'

He had been surprised when they'd anchored and been alone, since the yacht club had been so full and he couldn't imagine where anyone would go boating except along the coastline, so he wasn't bothered when, upon emerging on the deck, he noticed that since anchoring they'd been joined by another, smaller boat captained by a sun-hardened man in an unbuttoned shirt.

'Bona tarda!' The man called out across the water. 'Parla català?'

'No…' Matt glanced back at the stern, where he was relieved to see Mello making his way towards him. He pointed at him with his cigarette. 'My… he has a dictionary.'

'Buenas tardas,' Mello said, settling at Matt's side and slinging an arm around his waist, '¿Qué quiere?'

'We can speak English.' The man gestured at their boat, raising his fluffy grey eyebrows, 'What a vessel! It is a beautiful day to be on the water. You are tourists?'

Mello was doing something with his fingers on Matt's side with the pads of his fingers that was nearly painful – squeezing, poking, squeezing. Not morse code... Aha – tap code. _"Fábregas",_ repeating. Matt wanted to show that he understood, so he flicked his ashes into his wine glass in the pattern of _"K"_. Mello's fingers stilled, laid flat on his hip instead.

'It is.' Mello agreed. 'My partner's first visit to Barcelona.'

Fábregas and Mello were both looking expectedly at him, so Matt said, 'Yeah, totally,' and then cleared his throat loudly into his elbow.

'Then welcome! It's is the most beautiful city in the world! I saw you dropping anchor and decided to say "hola".' Fábregas told them with a friendly smile. 'I saw you with binoculars.'

'Matt loves warm weather birds.' Mello said in a voice like old molasses.

'Ah.' Fábregas smile pushed his leathery cheeks up into his sharp eyes. 'There are no birds like this in Russia, hm?'

'Uh, no.'

'No pacific loons.'

'Nope.'

'No albatross.'

'No.'

'Not even osprey?'

'None of those, that's for sure.'

Mello's fingers were digging in. Matt didn't need any code to know he should shut up.

'He doesn't know very much about birds; his interest is purely aesthetic.' Mello said over his wine glass. 'Anyway, his English is bad. I'm sure he doesn't know those words.'

'Oh! If I spoke for my wife like that, she would push me over the railing.' Fábregas said, laughing.

'If I don't, he might say something he shouldn't.' Mello muttered, harshly. 'You won't throw me overboard, will you, baby?'

'нет.'

'Well, why don't you offer me a glass of wine, and then I invite you to be my guests for a dinner party? My wife and I, a few friends. We eat at 9,' he said. 'You are funny little men; I'm sure you have many stories to tell me.'

Matt held back a snort at the pinched expression Mello made at being called a _funny little man._

'We can't refuse genuine Spanish hospitality.' Mello said, still wearing a look of vague disgust.

'Did you not have any activities planned? Usually tourists have plans morning, afternoon, night – museum, restaurant, always busy busy busy.'

'We arrived on an early plane and we were going to have an early night.'

'Extraordinary! What luck.' Fábregas said. 'I live in the very house where the birds you were looking at with your binoculars must have been.'

Unsure whether they were caught or what, Matt said 'cool coincidence. I'll get you a wine glass,' and excused himself to the cockpit to breathe. His side was going to bruise if he let Mello grab at him for any longer than he already had.

He could hear Mello's voice as a low foreign rumble from the kitchen where he dawdled, slowly filling a glass with wine and wondering what the fuck they were going to do now. Having dinner with the target hadn't been in the binder Mello had shown him back in London. Not that Mello had let him in on the actual plan, claiming security reasons à la "the less you know, the less you can betray". He was happy to be a guy in a van – or a nerd in a boat – but actually interacting with their target had already exhausted him.

Fábregas proposed a toast to new friendship when Matt returned, and they raised their glasses under a sweating sun. Matt had already complained that he would get a sunburn, that he couldn't see for shit in the bright light, and that the ocean made him nauseous, so he'd run out of conversational topics and just let Mello and Fábregas talk until Mello excused them to return the boat to the marina.

'Fuck.' Mello swore as soon as the motor was loud and they were cruising down the coastline. 'You're completely useless.'

'It's not like I asked to be here.' Matt said. 'I never said anything about being good at this, anyway. You just assumed.'

'I did not assume. I took a calculated risk and you failed me. How did you think there were no loons in your own fucking motherland?'

'I don't get out much! You should've said I was doing fuckall and don't know shit; I wouldn't have had to fake doing fuckall and not knowing shit.'

'I'll assume you're completely ignorant from now on, then.'

'Yeah, it would take a load off if you did.' Matt leant back against the window behind his seat. 'And I'm not a socialite, so you're going to have to carry me through this fucking dinner.'

'I improvise well enough for the both of us.' Mello said, and then sighed. 'This could be good. We won't have to break in. We have the afternoon to think about our move.'

'Could take a nap.'

'No. We're going shopping. Those suitcases are only sparsely packed and I don't like you in red.'

'I didn't choose these pants.'

'So you have no reason to sound so offended.' Mello was smirking. The tension had started to dissipate and the edge in Mello's voice was smoothing out again. Matt felt more relaxed when Mello was relaxed; he had a feeling that he could trust Mello's instincts or something, like if Mello was ok then everything was ok.

'You should've known they'd clash.' Matt griped.

'I knew.'

'And you still thought I could pass as gay in clashing pants?'

'I didn't think of that.'

'You should always think of stereotypes when you're undercover, baby.'

To Matt's complete surprise, Mello laughed. 'Yeah yeah, it was an unforgivable oversight.'

'So we're even – you don't know that I'm not a - what, an autumn? – and I don't know about the native birds of Russia.'

'I don't think that makes us even, considering the circumstances.'

'We make a good team, though.' Matt said, because he was incapable of holding his tongue.

'This has been a complete disaster,' Mello said, 'but you can think what you want.'

'Ok.'

It had been about ten years since Matt had purchased a shirt on purpose. He wasn't against the idea, but he didn't think going to the shops was a particularly exciting way to spend an hour. Mello – he should have guessed based on the _dresser in his office_ – not only took it quite seriously, but seemed to think it was an activity to last an afternoon.

'The fit's wrong.' He told Matt about a pair of pants that were fine.

'No. Boring.' He said of shoes that were fine.

'That's not a dinner jacket.' He said of a jacket that was fine.

'Can't I just wear something I like and be done with it? Maybe I'm one of those eccentric people who dresses in pajamas, but it's cool because I'm self aware.'

'You could never pass for self aware.' Mello told him, shoving Matt's arm into another jacket. 'We'll find something we both like.'

'Could we do it an hour ago?'

Mello rolled his eyes. He had somehow conceled a firearm in his pants, which Matt knew because he'd mistaken it for something else in an embarassing moment while Mello was harassing him about a tie. Knowing about it made the shopping experience more tolerable because Matt could calm his boredom with a fantasy where Mello snapped and just started shooting people. Just in the kneecaps or something; he wasn't a psychopath. Whatever got them out of the store as fast as possible.

They did end up agreeing on something for Matt to wear that was a good compromise between the enormous white fur coat Mello wanted him in and the pajama idea, and it was surprisingly motivating to sit in the back of a hired car in smart clothes like they were going to some kind of gangster prom.

'Do you think he knows?' Matt asked while they curled along the coastal roads in the night sun.

'I'm sure he suspects strongly. Let's not prove him right, how about that? Can you manage that?'

'I'll do my best.'

'Were you doing your best out on the water?'

'Yeah.'

Mello patted the back of his hand placatingly. 'Don't talk too much.'

'You said we'd talk about a plan?'

'Mm. I did say that, but I didn't think your input would help, so I came up with it while you where wasting my time complaining about the perfectly good clothes I picked for you.'

'Definitely not the way I remember it.' Matt said.

'Fábregas has been dealing arms to our rivals. We're shutting it down.'

'By going to dinner.'

'Since the original plan was trashed, partially thanks to you, yes. We are shutting down a rival arms dealer by going to dinner.'

Matt sniggered a little. 'I hope the food's better than the shit you bought for lunch. I'm actually starving.'

'I didn't spend 43€ on shit.' Mello spat, looking truly offended.

'Wow. I hope that pricetag included the wine.'

The sun hadn't set by the time the car pulled up in front of Fábregas' mansion – it was hanging over the water, keeping the late hour warm. They were guided around to the back of the house to an alfresco near the pool which had not been in the binder, either.

'Here is Micha, and there is Matvey.' Fábregas introduced them to a small table of friendly faces – pretty women, men with rolled cuffs, most smoking and all drinking. 'I present to you my stunning wife, Carla. Our most illustreous friends Deniel, Ezequiel, Jovi.'

Matt waved. Mello swept forward like the possessed spirit of someone with manners and kissed everyone on the cheeks. By the time he'd finished, Matt had been standing with his hands stiff at his sides for long enough that it would have been more awkward had he stumbled forward and tried to recreate Mello's little display, so he just sat down.

'Would you like a cigar?' asked Jovi, who was next to him. 'You don't mind sharing, do you?'

'No. Yeah. I mean, sure, whatever. That's fine.'

She poured him a glass of red, too, like she thought his arms were as useless as his conversational abilities. 'And how did you two meet?' she carried on. 'Samuel – Fábregas, that is – said he found you on a yacht in his ocean. He's a collector, isn't he? He found me hiking. I am from Vigo. We have been friends only seven days.'

'Cool.' Matt said.

'Carla is an excellent cook. Why don't you try paella? Have you eaten octopus? Where are you from?'

Jesus, Matt felt like he was in an interregation. He had a feeling Jovi didn't care what he said and was mostly interested in the sound of her own voice, but he agreed with Mello that it was best if he could get through this without saying anything. 'Uh, no, I don't think so. Micha and I live… not here. Uh, we travel a lot.'

'That is wonderful for you. Have this.' She gestured at Deniel who was across from them so he would hand her a caprese salad. 'Good balsamic is better than sex.'

'I don't like stuff that hasn't been microwaved.' Matt mumbled, completely dismayed.

Mello had been pulled into the discussion the rest of the table was having, of which Matt had caught confusing snippets of, but he must have been paying enough attention to Matt to have caught him stepping out of his role because he kicked him with his ridiculous steel toed dress shoe under the table and then took his hand on top of it.

Matt moved the salad around his plate a bit, took a sip of wine, and shifted in his seat so he was looking at Mello's profile outlined by the shimmering light coming off the pool and the red sunset.

'Impressive,' Mello was saying to Fábregas. 'that such a small change could make such a profitable difference.'

'Ah – well, the problem is, all the horses are good! So how to make a horse better than good? Everyone uses this stallion – he is the best!, they say, so we all use him! Or this bloodline or the next thing, everyone with money money money, throwing money. So many good trainers, so many good jockeys. How do I make this Fermontagne colt better than Novak's Fermontagne? I think it is the details like this that I told you. I do not let a groom brush my colt incorrectly. I say – did you brush him like he is a winner? Do it again, but with the feeling that he will win!'

Mello was nodding. Matt felt like he'd just listened to an alien give a speech in gibberish. He was going to leave this place drunk and hungry, and then find a pizza place.

'What do you do for work?' Jovi asked Matt, while Fábregas started in on something about feet. 'I am always surprised to hear what everyone does. Do you know Ezekiel is an aeroplane mechanic? Can you believe it! That sort of thing is over my head. I can change a tyre, Matvey, and that is all. But he told me he has a pilots license and a little plane. Maybe we can make him take us over the Mediterranean.'

'I don't like flying.' Matt said.

'Oh, I don't like commerical flying. Have you ever flown privately? It is much better. Now, I want to have a piece of bread but I need to share it, have half.'

Matt was presented with half of a flatbread covered in mushrooms, which he hated. 'Okay.'

'And how are you and your partner enjoying Spain? You must have seen the entire coastline, how special. It is such a lively country. I could never leave. I went to school in America, and it was wonderful, but it was not Spain.'

'That's for sure.' Said Matt, almost wishing that Fábregas had just opened the door and shot them both dead.

'Takeabigrisk won the stakes last weekend by a length and a half, and I jumped up! I was watching on the television, I jumped up and shouted "I did it!", because he shouldn't have won, he is 3 racing with 4 year olds and they are better than him truly, but it is like magic – I fired the whole staff four years ago and brought in new people, new ideas; these things matter in business. Everything has to be fresh. I don't like stuffy people. Boring is not good for thoroughbreds. I like them to be _alive!_ Life is better for everyone, even horses, when it is interesting.'

Then they toasted to new friendship, just as they had on the boat. The more Matt listened to Fábregas gush about his racehorses and rib his smiling wife, the more he wondered if he hadn't come by Matt and Mello honestly. He had met the other men at the table recently as well, one at the gym and the other at the track. He was so gregarious, likeably boastful, and eager to laugh, Matt had the impression that an odd floating foreign couple peeking through his kitchen window would barely count as strange amidst the seemingly endless bizarre encounters and experiences he alluded to in their dinner conversation alone.

Matt was getting comfortable over coffee and a plateful of macaroons after the octopus had been swapped out for dessert, thinking the whole thing wasn't so bad, when Fábregas smacked a pistol on the table, clattering the saucers and startling the guests.

Deniel drew quick as a rattlesnake, rocked the safety of his handgun back with a click, and was shot in the back of the head by someone Matt couldn't see from the darkness over by the pool.

'I'm surprised!' Fábregas said. 'I thought it would be you two who would try it.' He pointed his gun at Mello, then at Matt, back to Mello. 'But you don't look surprised, ao maybe you are just slow.'

Matt was surprised. He felt like his tongue had been sucked down his throat and was squirming in his bowels. He'd never seen anyone die – except online, but that hadn't prepared him for the smell.

'So he was here to kill you.' Mello said dryly. 'Risky way to find out.'

Fábregas opened his arms wide, like he was showing them the hanging stars and the bright moon, like it all belonged to him.

Ezequiel was the guy from the racetrack – an aggressively cheek-boned, foggy looking up-and-coming model. He had been sitting next to Deniel and gotten sprayed with blood by the exit wound when he jumped out of his seat in white-faced fear and was now collapsed on the ground. Fábregas stood, walked around the body of Deniel, and shot Ezequiel twice in the head.

'I don't think he knew whose house he was in.' Fábregas told them with small regret. 'I misjudged his intentions. Sometimes I am wrong about these things.'

Mello was still holding Matt's hand, so Matt tapped a little: _he did know._

 _Yes._ Mello tapped back.

But he didn't look afraid, the way Jovi did. He looked like a cat crouched. So it was okay. They were okay, Mello could handle it.

'Now, we can talk business.' Fábregas sat back down, keeping the pistol under his palm on the table. 'Why are you in Barcelona, Jovi?'

Jovi let go of the spoon she'd been using to stir her coffee and let it clink daintily on the mug, silent for once.

'Jovi! You can tell your Samuel. Why are you here in Barcelona tonight?'

She answered in Spanish, so Matt didn't understand. He tapped at Mello and got a short response: same as us.

'I understand.' Fábregas said, and the unseen person in the shadows shot her.

'Jesus.' Mello breathed, barely audible over the sound of her head cracking the coffee cup open when it hit the table.

'And you are tourists?' Fábregas asked Matt – looked right at him.

'Uh. I mean, yeah. But we're cool.'

'You are _cool_?'

'Yeah, like, this is...' Matt cleared his throat, 'fine.'

Mello had actually taken his eyes off Fábregas to glare madly at him, and Matt shrugged sheepishly.

'I'm not really familiar with Spanish dining customs but, you know, you have to do what you have to do, I guess.' He went on.

'You're right.' Said Fábregas. 'That is what I must do.'

Matt was braced for impact. Any second now,the bullet would hit him. And like a death throw, his mouth just kept going. 'Personally, I don't know exactly what's going on,, but I'm the last guy to judge what a man does in the privacy of his own home, right?' He had risen the hand Mello wasn't squeezing into a bloody pulp in the air, like surrender. 'As far as I saw, that guy tried to kill you. And she was also going to kill you? So that's… definitely… I think any court would say that's self defense right there.'

'Shut up.' Mello said outloud. 'Shut up, Matt.'

Fábregas waved him down. 'I want to hear more of this.'

'Uh...' Said Matt. 'I just don't want to die right now? I don't have a lot to live for but I am not bothering you. Sorry I looked at your kitchen a bit. I was just wondering why someone who lives on the beach had a pool but Mello said it's because of tides. I can't swim, actually.'

Fábregas' wife, Carla, was laughing behind her hand. Or maybe she was plugging her nose; death reeked. 'I think he is begging for his life.' She said, and then snorted unattractively.

'His English is good.' Fábregas raised an eyebrow at Mello, who looked murderous.

'I wish it wasn't.' Mello ground out. 'I prefer him quiet.'

'It's how I told you, isn't it, Carla?' Fábregas said.

'Yes, I would drown him.' She agreed.

'Enough jokes. Why are you in Barcelona?'

Mello leant back and took his angry eyes off Matt to look piercingly at Fábregas and his cheerful wife. 'I'm taking my idiot partner on vacation.' He said. 'I know who you are. But that's the truth. He has nothing to do with my work. He's just a bumbling, unassociated fool. Who I am in love with.'

Matt was feeling insulted on behalf of his IQ, but found it in him to nod along on behalf of his EQ.

'Of course I know who you are, as well, Mello.'

'I hoped to be unaisled in my personal life.' Mello snapped back.

'Yes. We have hoped, haven't we, Carla? You are young and naive if you still hope. You accepted an invitation to dinner.'

'So we're good?' Matt asked. 'We're cool?'

'I don't think you are here to kill me. We are good.' Fábregas answered. 'He, I think, is. Not good.'

Mello shot first. He shot into the night and there was a crash like branches ripping and a meaty splash, and then Matt was dragged out of his seat by the front of his shirt and pushed into Fábregas' chest by a fast moving Mello, making Fábregas teeter and misaim his pistol into a potted plant, shattering it.

Carla he stunned with a plate thrown to the brow, Fábregas he shot at until the gun was out of bullets, and then he threw it on the table and yanked another one out of his bigass coat. Matt let himself be shoved behind him, feeling like his legs had become lead and his brain was too slow to communicate with him. His hand was still up, like a wave.

They tripped back around to the front of the house, guided by the sights of Mello's glock. 'Can we drive this?' He shouted, banging his hand on the roof of one of Fábregas' cars that was parked in front.

'Keys… I would need keys.'

They stared at each other for a moment before running back inside. Matt's heartbeat was in his eyeballs. Mello was bending at the knees like he might do a karate move or something else insanely badass at any moment.

There was a bowl on the dining room table with the keys for the wrong car. Another bowl in the kitchen had the keys to a golf cart.

'Can't you do something with the fucking spark plugs or something, goddamn it?' Mello hissed while they scrambled around the mansion. His hand was wrist deep in a junk drawer in the office.

Matt snorted. 'A 2012 Porsche? No. Welcome to modern living. I mean, come on.'

The keys were in Carla's purse, which was hanging from the back of the bedroom door. They'd wasted enough time that Mello was starting to curse about the cops at increasing volume.

'Good fucking work.' Mello spat when Matt had turned the key over and squealed out of the driveway. 'Don't take the highway.'

'I think I might have saved us.' Matt said.

'They were so confused that a grown man could be such a rambling, nervous wreck at the sight of a little gun that they couldn't even shoot us.' Mello closed his eyes, rested his head on the headrest like he was gathering himself. 'I think you might have saved us. Fuck. I think you fucking saved us, you complete idiot.'

'Thank you.'

'Mission accomplished despite all odds.'

'I'm still so hungy.' Matt said. 'Could you check in the dash for some smokes or something? Something.'

'Could be an experience to take this through a McDonalds drive through.' Mello suggested, rifling through the license and registraion papers and tissue papers in the car until he came out with a lighter and pack of cigarettes.

Matt nodded, letting Mello put a smoke in his mouth and light it. 'Then we have to drop it, I guess?'

'I don't think anyone will report it stolen.' Mello said. 'Maybe we go see the Basilica and leave it at the airport tomorrow.'

'When'd you get fun?'

'When the job was finished.'

'I get it. You were on the clock.'

'I was on the clock.' Mello shook his head. 'Sure.'

They drove for a handful of minutes, following the GPS on Mello's phone to the nearest fast food joint, where Matt ordered fries with a feeling of intense relief and completion.

'I still don't get why you needed a hacker to do that, though.' Matt said when they'd checked into a new hotel in Canet de Mar.

'There's nothing to get.' Mello said through the bathroom door. 'I hired you because I wanted you, which is what I've told you from the beginning.'

'Right.' Matt shrugged. 'You couldn't have known what would happen, though.'

'I didn't know.'

'You just kidnap a lot of people in case it works out for you.'

'No.'

'Kidnap a couple people a year, pray it's a good call.'

Mello laughed. 'That's true. That is true.'

'Well jeez. Creepy.'

He came out in a towel with wet hair. 'God rewards the faithful.'

'Yeah, I'm sure God loves helping you pull off heinous crimes.' Matt said. He was exhausted. 'If I sleep through the Basilica tour, will you kill me?'

'You'll kill _me_ , because you're driving us there.'

'Oh. Yeah. I mean, I'm going to sleep until next Tuesday. I'm knackered.'

'Go for it. Basilicas have been around for hundreds of years. I doubt they'll be gone by Tuesday. Can I kiss you?'

'What?'

'Can I kiss you?'

Matt felt his face heat up. 'I don't know, can you?'

The exasperation on Mello's face was funny until it was so close Matt couldn't see it without crossing his eyes. 'I guess we didn't even really lie to Fábregas,' he mumbled, just before Mello kissed him.

Mello pulled back a little. He looked nicer now - not just because he was nice looking, but because he didn't have spikes on his shoulders and Matt doubted he was armed under the towel. 'Like I said: the truth is the best disguise.'

When Mello had accosted him and shoved him in the back of a mid-size SUV, he'd said something about 72 hours – 72 hours to take down the arms dealer who'd been encroaching on their expanding territory, which left Matt with a perfect amount of time to catch up on all the sleep he'd missed thanks to Mello's ridiculous schedule, and to see three Basilicas along the coast before the Porsche was too much of a liability. Just enough time for him to come around to the idea of a coastal vacation, and just enough time for Mello to get a call about some problems in their supply chain in Denmark.

'Do you need a van guy?' Matt asked, when Mello clicked his work phone shut.

'No. But I want one.'

'For 20 percent.'

'No. Still 10.'

But Mello held his hand in the airport on the way to Denmark, which was incentive enough.


End file.
